


Bad Moon Rising

by Anonymous



Category: Mianite - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Bonding Through Murder, Child Abuse, Dark, Detective and SK, Disturbing Content, Drowning, Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of Character, Straight up violence--please--read the goddamn tags, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Unhealthy Relationships, serial killer au, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 12:03:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Disclaimer: All acts and characterizations are a work of fiction and do not represent subject material, real life material, or characters. The author does not condone what all they write.SERIAL!KILLER AU, MIANITE: EXPLICIT WARNING SHOULD BE HEEDED FOR VIOLENCE, NOT SEXUAL CONTENT.Jordan has known Tom was a murderer all his life. It only became an issue when they stopped talking for ten years and took two different directions in life. When he sees Tom again, he is a serial killer seeming to have made a deal with the devil and his murders leave too many bloody footprints across Jordan's life. Especially, when a new case puts both of them in the way of each other's plans. What will Jordan do when he becomes Tom's next victim to be?





	Bad Moon Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: Everything is completely fiction, not real personalities or events of real-people depicted—(minor exception, experiences from author’s life kind of used). Uses personalities they portray on the internet which isn’t related to the actual people etcetera ecetera. No smut—but disturbing content may go on later. Just mostly a guilty relief fic. As in “Author thinks about the time as a kid some things in this fiction did happen to them/siblings and thinks ‘Wow, these days I just play Minecraft and go to school and cellphones exist, times really did change’.” 

_2000_ – _New Mexico_

The radio perched on the edge of the picnic table crackled to life as a woman gently adjusted the knob to set it to the opinion-news channel. She tilted her head and listened intently to the opinion piece as her kids wrestled behind her in the dirt. Her eyes were growing old and the wrinkles around them didn’t flatter the exhausted frown on her face.

She listened intently to the commentators:

_“You know—we like our peace. Those Carr brothers down in Kansas—what city was it? Witchita—we don’t want something like that. I have a daughter at home and I’d hate to ever think about her experiencing something like that when she left the house.”_

“Mom!” Came a startled cry. The woman sighed, but didn’t turn her head to the boys. The younger voice cried out again and begged, “Tell him to stop—I just want to—stop it Spark!” the boy yelled, but his brother laughed. A deep throaty chuckle.

“Boys, stop,” the mother said exhausted. “We’re on vacation—when your father—” she cut herself off and sighed. She rubbed the spot where the wedding ring used to be on her finger and turned the radio louder. It drowned out the loud squeak from the younger boy.

_“You know—Wichita—isn’t that where we last heard of BTK. It’s been a decade since he’s killed—it still gives me chills, Scott—but let’s get off that grim stuff. Yeah, yeah. Heh. We make bad transitions—but back to the current issue—”_

“Mom,” Came the shout, louder. It was drowned out by laughter and the mother just ignored it this time. Not vocalizing her acknowledgement.

On the ground, his book having been thrown into the river, lay a young ten year-old who was no match for his older brother. At eighteen—his older brother easily pushed him down to the ground whenever the ten year-old had made attempts to grab his book back. The ten year-old had given up retaliating and that was when the older brother threw the book into the river.

Dismayed, the young boy pulled himself off the sandy ground of the campsite and scurried down the side of the ditch to where the book was halfway submerged in the water. He stretched out his hand to grab it. His fingers graced the cover and he pinched it between two fingers. His attention was so focused on the book he failed to hear his brother follow him down the ditch after him until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Spark, stop—”

The hand moved up to the base of his head and it was shoved under the water. The book was forgotten and the young boy’s hands scrambled backwards and his body twisted as his brother planted a knee on his back, holding the boy’s head under the water. He fought to free himself, hands fumbling weakly over the hand holding his head down. His lungs were feeling strained and his eyes burned form the water.

His head—submerged—the faint numbness tinging the edge of his vision and the staticky headache as he felt the burn in his chest. The book faintly visible in the water—the colorful title of _Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ distinguishable.

Just as everything was going black—Jordan bolted awake.

_2002 - California_

He woke-up sweating—back in his bed in the room he no longer had to share with his now twenty year-old brother. His brother arrived home from college tomorrow for his summer break and his anxiety had been through the roof. However, like many dirty secrets—he could never voice exactly what Spark did to him to his mother. Spark had only got worse over the years, but he felt powerless to convince anyone to see that.

“Jordan—come down and give me a hand with the boxes—I want Spark’s room ready in time for when he gets back,” his mother called. She had grey coloring her hair and the strands of blonde pulled tight into a pony tail. Her glasses were absent and she gave Jordan a stern look as he clambered out of bed and into the hall. “Did you just wake up?”

“Yeah,” Jordan mumbled. “Stayed up late playing games,” Jordan defended. He hadn’t, but his mother didn’t question it.

“Well—you can sleep earlier tonight. Spark’s bringing his girlfriend and I want the house to be in perfect shape for them when they come. He says he may propose to her and I want my future daughter-in-law to feel at home,” his mom rambled as he bustled around with the duster. Straightening things as she passed into his brother’s room. It had been freshly cleaned and Jordan eyed the boxes pulled out of storage. She directed him to one.

He wasn’t hungry and didn’t bother to complain about his mother not letting him eat yet. His mouth was soured by the dull taste of lake-water still in his mind. He hastily made Spark’s bed, unpacking the bed spread and trying not to think about Spark’s last relationship. His last one had been with a boy Spark claimed was eighteen too and told him that he couldn’t tell mom. The boy had been nice, but always flighty. He didn’t seem as old as Spark—even if Jordan reasoned Spark had just rounded up. When Jordan was eleven and mentioned his favorite show, Spark’s boyfriend seemed happily to know all about it too—even though Spark had told him a thousand times it was a show for “stupid braindead children.”

But Jordan had the bruises and nightmares to know not to question Spark. Jordan couldn’t say definitively at twelve that Spark’s boyfriend hadn’t been eighteen—but he was pretty sure thirteen—sixteen was a more accurate range.

He hoped Spark’s new girlfriend wasn’t like Spark—maybe like the flighty boy or nice. He kept those hopes up as he did finally eat breakfast and helped his mom clean absently. His feelings got worse when while he was hiding some of his more precious belongings in places he didn’t think Spark would look, he heard the knock at the front door.

“Spark!” his mom greeted. “And this must be the lovely Ianite you’ve told us all about. Oh, you’re just as beautiful as he described!” Jordan quickly shoved his Gameboy behind his mom’s dresser and skirted back towards his room, hoping he’d make it without getting noticed. His mother caught sight of him and motioned him over. “Jordan! Your brother is home, come greet him,” his mother demanded.

Jordan flinched, but steeled himself as Spark put on a moving performance. He swept Jordan into a hug and gently ruffled his hair. His girlfriend—nearly as tall as Spark and with long radiant violet hair—gently smiled at Jordan and waved. There was something off though in her eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was the black-stuff she had around her eyes, but he felt his hopes dashed. Spark put a little too much pressure on his neck and Jordan fought to keep from panicking as his mother gushed over the two of them.

“He spent all day helping me get your room ready,” his mother told the couple. Ianite smiled, showing pristine white teeth, and Spark laughed heartily.

“Oh, hey—you’re such a good little brother, aren’t you?” Spark intoned and released Jordan, letting him step back. Jordan looked up to see that familiar look in Spark’s eyes.

“I missed you,” Jordan expressed, mirroring Spark’s ecstatic tone. He felt his mom gently brush his shoulders and Spark ruffled his hair again—this time, there was a clear message. Jordan felt the old bruises on the back of his neck burn.

“Don’t worry—I’ll make this summer count. We have a lot of lost time to make-up,” Spark said. “Ianite and I can take you out on all sorts of fun excursions,” Spark said more to his mother and she perked up. She couldn’t afford to take Jordan out to a lot, and she gratefully hugged her son.

“I’m glad you’re being such a good role model for him—I know how hard it must be to grow up without a father figure. You do a lot for him,” she praised. Jordan couldn’t completely cover the chill running down his spine, but he excused himself before he could have some sort of accident.

In the bathroom he locked the door and stared in the mirror at the panic in his eyes. The yellow dim lights of the bathroom couldn’t hide the fear as he fought to keep calm as he cleaned his hands and prepared himself mentally to deal with his brother.

…

It had been two weeks.

Spark had suggested a camping trip—the three of them. So, Jordan could get used to Ianite.

Starting yesterday.

Jordan was already huddled in the woods sobbing, the burn across his arm too much for him to just grin and bare it.

Ianite was not any better than Spark.

He kept his tears silent and huddled in a ditch where bugs crawled past him. They used to give him the creepy-crawlies and make him uncomfortable, but right now he was just too worried his breathing or heart might give him away. While he hadn’t heard Spark for awhile, he had heard Ianite sympathetically calling out. “Jordan—it was an accident. Please come out, we’ll go home. We’ll tell your mom about everything,” she reassured.

He was almost tempted. But there something off about her. When Spark had first hit Jordan in front of her—she didn’t even move a muscle. She kissed Spark on the lips later and they were loud—loud in all matters as Jordan fought to sleep, the bruise coloring his stomach visible to only him as he lay in bed, unable to drown out their sounds.

He stayed still, hoping her foot-steps would move past. They did, but even then he couldn’t move. If he moved too soon—he could fall into a trap. While if he didn’t move at all, they might eventually find him. Jordan couldn’t possibly survive another five days with them. He’d die. They’d say it was an accident. Spark wouldn’t hold back. Especially if he was worried Jordan might finally tell.

Jordan waited until night fall before he pried himself out of his hiding spot. He was too scared to think about stopping for anything. His stomach hurt. He wanted to find a nice bathroom and a meal. He considered the ranger’s station he had seen on the way into the campground—but he knew Spark. No one ever doubted Spark’s version of events.

No one ever questioned Spark.

Jordan found a road. He didn’t know where it lead. A big part of his young mind replayed horror stories his mom had told him. Strangers in vans stealing children off the road. Predators lurking in the shadows. Wild animals prowling along the edge of the woods.

Would any of that compare to Spark?

Jordan didn’t know which was worse and he wanted to cry. But he knew better. As Spark had always said: only babies cry, and if Jordan didn’t want to be treated like one, he should toughen up.

He kept to the trees, keeping the road in sight. He would dive into bushes, ignoring thorns or possible harm to himself, at the first-sign of headlights or any sort of sound like a person. There were many close calls and many times he swore he heard Spark’s voice or saw his truck.

Jordan felt like his feet were bleeding when he made it to a small building. It was lit and a single gas pump sat outside. A small shop was attached to it and showed a sign saying Adults only. Colorful lights adorned the window and Jordan recognized it as one of those adult-sex shops. He had never seen one up close, but he heard soft pop music playing from inside. The parking lot was empty except for one car. The gas-station portion of the property was dim. The open sign turned off.

Jordan eyed the adults only sign.

He opened the door, flinching as the bell jingled.

No one was at the counter and Jordan crossed his arms across himself. The lights of the shop were bright and the colored lighting and imposing racks of adult clothing, movies, and shelved sex-objects assaulted his eyes. Yet, his eyes returned to the window outside. He thought about Spark.

Seeing as no one was around Jordan surveyed the shop. He shuffled around and found a small corner at the back of the shop where he could squeeze into. Spark wouldn’t be able to find him if he stopped here and the shop person wouldn’t either. Or Jordan hoped so.

He ignored the burning sensation in his stomach and curled up into a ball. He couldn’t see much from his place—other then a small box television playing clips from a best hits of various adult movies. Jordan averted his eyes and stared at the floor, shivering.

The bell jingled again and Jordan watched people’s feet as a number of people came in. Most men. None stayed long, buying things and then leaving. The shop keeper seemed to have returned and went about their business, oblivious to their loitering child.

It seemed like the fifth loop of whatever material of adult video was playing when Jordan started nodding off. It was then he heard a faintly familiar voice. At first his heart started pounding recklessly—Spark? Ianite? His brain caught up and he registered the voice this time. He wanted to peak out to confirm it—but he couldn’t risk it.

“Well, I’m hanging out here—if you want to kick me out, then go ahead. My foster parents don’t give a shit,” the voice argued. The shop-keeper voice behind the counter let out a reluctant, but almost fond, groan.

“Go to the backroom then—or restock shelves. If you go to the backroom, bring me back a Coke,” the shopkeeper suggested. The voice laughed and Jordan heard a door swing shut. The mention of a coke almost had his stomach growling, but he tried to convince himself to nod off again. Yet—he was straining his memory for the voice.

He felt it was Spark’s old boyfriend. But—obviously he couldn’t be eighteen—he had Foster Parents. Jordan’s head felt heavy and he leaned back against the wall. The door swung open and shut again, and he heard a loud clatter like a can falling. “Fuck!” someone swore.

“Go get napkins and clean that up,” the shopkeeper reprimanded.

“Yeah, yeah—I will,” the voice replied quickly.

Jordan eyed the liquid. He could see the spilled Coke can—which means there’s a chance the person who spilled it might see him. Jordan pushed himself further back, but stared ahead fearfully. The presumable owner of the voice reappeared, holding a bunch of paper-towels from what looked to be the bathroom. He bent down and mopped up the soda quickly, only the side of his face visible to Jordan.

It was Spark’s old boyfriend.

Jordan almost wanted to feel relief—but if Ianite had been bad—then there’s a chance Spark’s old boyfriend was too. He stayed quiet, holding his breath.

 _Don’t see me_.

Spark’s old-boyfriend was nearly finished mopping up the soda when he stood up too quickly and knocked something off the shelf Jordan was hiding behind. He bent down to pick it up—and upon standing Jordan accidentally locked eyes with him.

Jordan stared fearfully at him.

The boy stared back. At first—he didn’t say anything. He retreated, paper-towels in hand. Jordan’s stomach dropped though. He had a feeling they would call the police—and then the police would believe Spark, and then he would get in trouble, and then Spark would continue doing what he does. He began to panic. Jordan tried to remember the quickest route to the door and braced his shaky legs to dart up and run if needed when someone reappeared in front of the entrance to his hiding spot.

It was not the voice, but what looked to be the shopkeeper. Jordan stared at them petrified. The man wordlessly looked at him, and then to Jordan’s arm. The burn was visible, but had now been worsened by the dirt and grime and lack of care to it. He turned to Spark’s boyfriend slightly visible who handed him a water and a soft towel.

“Hey,” the shopkeeper said softly. “Can you please come out?”

Jordan shook his head.

The shopkeeper lowered himself and offered the water. “I won’t make you leave the shop—but it looks like you need that arm cleaned up. We have a bathroom in the back,” he offered. Jordan didn’t trust him. Especially since Spark’s old boyfriend was still standing there. Spark could be nearby—what if they just gave him back.

Spark’s old boyfriend spoke up. His voice was quiet, but it wasn’t quiet enough for Jordan to miss what he said. “I think I know what happened—I can explain it you—”

The shopkeeper clearly knew the other boy well enough because he just nodded. He set the water down and backed away from the entrance to Jordan’s hiding spot. He saw the boy linger, but he stepped away as well. Jordan eyed the water, but his stomach twisted too violently. He curled up tighter in a ball and didn’t look as a shadow fell over his hiding spot again.

“Hey—Jordan, right?” the voice said. “Do you remember me?”

Jordan nodded. The boy crouched down to his level.

“Spark’s…kind of an awful person, huh? Can’t say I have good taste,” the boy humored.

“You’re Spark’s ex-boyfriend,” Jordan said quietly.

“Ex?” the boy seemed surprised and Jordan’s gut fell further. “Wouldn’t have called us boyfriends…or at least as far as I know, it never went both ways,” it was said with a bitter edge. He sat down on the floor and glanced to the door entrance to the shop. He waited a beat and then looked to Jordan. “Tom—my name is Tom.”

Jordan didn’t respond. Tom nudged the water with his foot. “I’ll tell you what I know about Spark, and you tell me what you know?” Tom offered.

Jordan just looked up at him. Tom nodded and then sighed. “So—yes. Spark and I…still do…have a kind of relationship. Not that it’s good. As I know—I’m the…side chick?”

“You’re not a chick,” Jordan corrected.

“Thank-you, Captain Obvious,” the boy muttered. “His girlfriend he’s been dating for a few years or so—Ianite?”

“Few years?” Jordan was surprised about that. He almost said ‘he just brought her home’, but fell silent when he saw Tom’s inquisitive stare.

“And Spark has a habit of beating underage boys, clearly,” Tom stated blandly. He watched Jordan’s face. Jordan didn’t move a muscle. “Or beating is too kind of a word. He used to tell me stories about what he’d do to you—what he thought of doing to you,” Tom spoke honestly. Jordan folded his arms across his chest—ignoring the burn of his harmed one.

“Guess he got bored of just doing it to you,” Tom said wryly, and pulled his shirt collar down to reveal the scar. It was a knife wound—or some sort of stab wound. Tom let his collar snap back up and he eyed Jordan now. This time he didn’t interrupt the silence.

Jordan didn’t know if he could trust Tom. Tom admitted to still being in a relationship with Spark. “Spark said you were eighteen?” Jordan couldn’t help, but question.

“I’m fifteen now,” Tom answered.

“You were only…thirteen,” Jordan said.

Tom nodded. He adjusted his sitting position. Clearly restless. “Want to come out now?”

“I ran away from Spark,” Jordan admitted. Tom nodded. “Will you make me go back if I come out?”

“No,” Tom said. “I plan to end my relationship with Spark—I’ve planned it for awhile.” He offered his hand. He had dirt under his nails and his hands were calloused. Jordan felt shaky and had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to stand.

“Can I trust you?” Jordan questioned.

Tom didn’t immediately say yes. “I don’t think you’re on my hitlist,” Tom said seriously. He offered his hand palm up to Jordan and Jordan hesitantly took it. Tom stood slowly and then pulled Jordan up. He stumbled and Tom caught him. He guided Jordan to the earlier backroom door Jordan had seen.

The shopkeeper eyed them worriedly, but Tom turned his head and said something quickly. Jordan’s pounding headache drowned it out. He could barely walk. As Tom sat him down in a wooden chair Jordan surveyed the room. An old vending machine was sitting in the corner. A fridge was beside it, with various magnets and notes pinned to it. A counter with a sink and coffee machine were visible, a microwave at the edge of his view on that same counter. Tom wet a paper towel and brought it to Jordan’s arm gently. His hand didn’t feel pleasant and Tom didn’t work slowly. Jordan bit his lip to keep from protesting too much as Tom cleaned his arm of dirt.

Once the burn was visible, Tom turned his attention to a first-aid kit. He stopped himself and glanced back at Jordan. He was leaning in his seat, bracing his head against his hand. “Do you need a moment alone?"  
  
Jordan nodded and Tom pointed in the direction of the bathroom.

The bathroom had a vague-faded hand-washing poster on the wall. A candle—not currently lit—sat on the back of the toilet. The mirror was open, the first-aid box having been fetched from there. Various pills, including a prescription, sat scattered in the shelves of the mirror. A bottle of soap was on the sink—a small butterfly adorning the faintly blue hue it.

Jordan did his business quickly, ignoring the headache. He leaned against the sink as he washed his hands, grateful that the mirror was open, so he didn’t have to look at his reflection. He bent over the sink and splashed water on his face to wipe some grime away. He scrubbed his arms of dirt, dancing his fingers across the burn. He grimaced.

A gentle knock on the door. Jordan considered the lock on the door, but eventually dried his hands on a paper towel and opened the door. Tom was standing on the other side, and he looked at Jordan carefully. “You feel any better?” Tom asked.

Jordan nodded mutely. A wave of tiredness had crashed over him. Tom helped him sit down and then rummaged through the fridge. He handed Jordan a can of coke and a small candy-bar. Jordan felt his appetite returning and his nibbling on the candy-bar didn’t last long before he was inhaling it. The Coke followed, to the point where he nearly made himself sick. Tom let him be while he ate. He drifted out another door—one not connected to the sex shop. He returned with a premade sandwich and a bottle of juice.

“Before you eat this, I’m going to try and bandage up the burn on your arm,” Tom said. He pulled out a tiny tube of Neosporin and spread a thin layer across Jordan’s burn. He winced, but it didn’t feel too painful. He considered the bandage, but then hesitated. He exited the back-room to where the shopkeeper was. The shopkeeper reemerged a few moments later.

“Mot used to be an almost nurse,” Tom said. He let the shopkeeper, Mot, through. “He’s patched me up plenty of times. “

“I did a lot of shit years ago,” Mot said in explanation. Jordan let him examine his arm. “I think I have some aloe-vera lotion, but we don’t have a lot here. That section,” Mot motioned to the cracked part of the wound that had scabbed over, but was still gaping a bit, “is an issue. Don’t wrap it—the skin is too sensitive. Wet a piece of gauze and put it over that area,” Mot suggested. Tom complied with his instructions and Jordan winced. Now that he was feeling comfortable and only a bit hungry, the pain was a lot more apparent. Mot quickly darted into the bathroom and grabbed a familiar bottle of ibuprofen. He shook out a few pills and set it down beside the juice bottle.

“Have him take those—he can take more in a few hours,” Mot said. He took note of the juice and sandwich and eyed the door Tom had grabbed them from. Jordan wondered if it was the gas station.

“Will do,” Tom said. He leaned on one of the mismatched wooden chairs surrounding the pop-up table in the backroom. Mot exited back out of the backroom. Tom finished up and let Jordan eat in peace, leaning against a chair.

“Did you walk here?” Tom questioned.

“Yes,” Jordan said. He was trying hard not to nod off. He hadn’t got much sleep under Spark’s “brotherly” care, and he was tired from the walking and hiding.

“Do you think he followed you?” Tom questioned. He didn’t sound scared or happy—or even angry. Just curious.

“Maybe,” Jordan said. He hoped not. He was nodding off and he had to keep startling himself awake. He didn’t want to fall asleep until he knew he was safe. Tom noticed how tired he was getting and opened one of the covers and pulled out a blanket.

“We used to have a futon, but it was torn to shred by Mot’s damned dog over-time. We still have half the cushions from it and if you want some privacy you can sleep in the empty cupboard under the sink. You might fit in there. Tom pulled out the old material and set it on one of the wooden chairs. Jordan glanced anxiously towards the shop door. Tom followed his eye sight and sighed. “You can’t sleep out of fear of Spark?”

Jordan nodded.

“It’s fine,” Tom said. “I’ll stay back here with you.”

Jordan didn’t feel safe yet, but the tiredness was winning over. He dragged the cushions to the dusty wooden floor and grabbed the blanket. It smelled faintly of wool and mothballs. He curled into it and in a few seconds, he was asleep.

…

Tom lied.

Or rather, Jordan would come to realize—he had his own ulterior motives.

Jordan awoke to an empty room. When he checked the shop door he found it locked. The other door was now unlocked and when Jordan peaked out—he saw it was the gas station. Mot was absent—as was Tom—but a tall man with a five o’clock shadow and tousled black hair with dark skin tended to the register. Jordan let the door fall shut softly and felt very much alone. And that made him scared.

He didn’t know where Spark was. Or where Tom was. Or what anyone was doing, and it made him petrified. He didn’t know if he could stay in the gas station. The possibility of waiting for some unknown fate or a whole day for Mot or Tom to return terrified him. He didn’t want to walk into danger, but he also didn’t know if Tom would betray him.

Jordan decided to wait it out. He found an old sudoku book and spent his time doing the empty ones. Around a few hours—according to the clock on the wall, a man opened the back room door. He was holding a small plastic tray of hot-dogs and a few packets of condiments. He set it down on the table and turned to Jordan with a small smile. “Sorry, boyo. It’s been busy, we’re one of the only gas stations for a few miles around. Campers stop by here a lot. Hope you weren’t dying of starvation,” the man humored. He murmured a soft thanks, but the man didn’t leave. “I’m subbing a shift for one of Mot’s employees—normally I’d be doing my other business, but some of Mot’s regular employees are out. If you ever need help, I’ll extend the same line of invitation I gave Tom.” He handed Jordan a business card. Jordan had never been handed a business card, but he took it and examined the number. He told himself he’d commit it to memory.

Because there was too real of a chance this world of safety wouldn’t last. The man seemed to know that too. His smile, though grim, was sympathetic. He brought back a fountain-drink before he disappeared entirely. When Jordan glanced out there again, a woman was working cashier. She was on her phone. Her hair was done elaborately on top of her head and Jordan let the door fall close quietly. He made the hot dogs last out of fear no meal would come at dinner.

None did. Jordan filled the fountain cup with water from the sink. He had memorized the number and was filled with anxiety about his survival. He had every right to be.

Tom came back at night—but he wasn’t alone.

“You’ve never let me down, Tom,” said Spark—his voice clear as his truck lights. Jordan’s stomach plummeted. He quickly threw himself into the bathroom and locked the door. He braced his back against the door, his heart hammering in his throat.

“Of course, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” Tom said. Jordan could hear them kiss and then the backroom door swung open.

“Time’s up, Jordan!” Spark hollered. “You’re going to get it, you goddamn waste of air.” His usual brotherly façade had vanished entirely, and his fist hammered into the bathroom door ruthlessly. Jordan shook, his eyes darting to the pills in the mirror cabinet. Would there be enough for a quick and easy out? A painful—or possibly painless suicide? Jordan was too terrified to move.

“Stop that,” Tom chided. His voice was playful. “I have the key—here, babe.” Jordan didn’t have enough time to pull away from the door as it was pulled open. He felt Spark’s arm lock around his neck like a vice.

“You know—it’ll be tragic,” Spark said. Jordan tried to fight him, clawing at his arm. He looked to Tom wildly who was looking at Spark with his look of adoration. “My brother—who could never swim—tragically drowned in water, because his dumb ass wanted to go play in it. The bruises? The gay pedophilic shopkeeper, obviously—my darling idiot brother ran to him!” He threw Jordan to the ground, letting his head hit the corner of the table. It wobbled and fall—its weak legs not able to support his weight. Before Jordan could stand, Spark hauled him up by his hair.

Jordan yelled in pain and panic. He hoped someone could hear him. That someone would take action. Tom stood to the side and opened the backroom door so Spark could drag Jordan out. Jordan fought with all he could, but he was shaking. Tears were streaming down his face and he couldn’t find his voice. “Tom, get the driver’s side,” Spark commanded. He tossed Tom the truck keys and Tom caught them. Spark dragged Jordan out the front of the shop and let him come crashing to the ground of the parking lot. Jordan skinned his hands and arms. He tried to stand, to run, but Spark slammed his foot into his side.

“You’re going to die, and no one is going to give a fucking shit,” Spark said. He dragged Jordan up by his shirt collar and threw him into the backseat of the truck. He felt someone’s hands on his throat—Ianite’s. She efficiently and quickly put enough pressure on his throat to make him gasp for air and while he was desperately attempting to breath, Spark bound his hands roughly. “Tom, get his feet.”

Tom did. He was in the passenger seat, looking calm and composed. Jordan kicked at him—feeling a strange mixture of hurt and betrayal, but Tom caught his foot. Jordan struggled, ignoring the constricting sensation around his throat—but nothing came of it. Ianite hauled him entirely into the backseat and dropped something heavy on his chest to keep him pinned. Something was shoved into his mouth and Jordan screamed. He just wanted it to end.

The truck ride was bumpy and Jordan sunk into his head. He closed his eyes tightly and refused to open them, even as he felt someone slap him. _I’m going to die_. Jordan couldn’t bare the thought. He repeated numbers to himself, played back old favorite books and episodes—anything but what was going on. Even as he heard the truck come to a stop and felt the weight moved.

 _I’m going to die_.

Jordan couldn’t stay in his head. Not as Spark dragged him out, cackling. Jordan opened his eyes to see a portable-lamp-lit campsite and the axe for “firewood” perched menacingly against a tree. “We gotta make it look like a sick bastard defiled my darling little brother? Tom—”

“No thanks,” Tom said. Spark turned on him, fire glowing in his eyes, but Tom just smiled easily. “I was going to get the rest of those tools you wanted, babe.”

Ianite shot him a look of disgust, but Spark waved him off. Spark was grinning, his posture relaxed. He gestured to Jordan. “Do it then, Ianite.” She let out an annoyed huff, but didn’t argue. Jordan strained against the binds, but he couldn’t see a way out. She pulled out a small knife and brought it down to Jordan’s neck and then tried to swiftly drag it across his chest to cut his shirt off. She missed and Jordan let out a muffled howl of pain. Spark laughed. “I’ll be back, I’m moving the truck.”

Jordan prayed Ianite accidentally killed him.

Ianite was bored with him it almost seemed, or she was hesitating out of disgust. She turned her head towards the approaching foot-steps. “Spark, can’t you—”

It was a sickening sound. Tom was holding the axe handle. The axe blade was lodged in Ianite’s head. She wasn’t dead, but she choked and in disbelief brought her hand up—unable to comprehend. Tom kicked her over, and with a great wrench, pulled the axe free. He brought it down again, and again, and again—and the fifth time—she didn’t seem alive. But for good measure, Tom pulled the axe free and swung it down again.

Jordan watched in open amazement and horror. Tom was standing over Ianite’s dead body, blood staining---plastic. He was wearing plastic over his clothes. Jordan through his tears could hear and see a crinkling plastic covering Tom’s hands. He didn’t spare Jordan another look.

He stalked past, the axe swinging from his hands. Jordan shivered against the ground. Tom reappeared, axe gone. He was carrying something else and with hardly a look at Jordan he deposited it on the ground in front of Ianite’s body. Tom walked away again, and Jordan stared at the dead body only inches from his feet. He was grateful her eyes weren’t facing him, only the bloody back of her head. The violet hair now less beautiful than before.

He heard Spark’s voice as he returned. “Ianite?” It was like Spark knew. Like some part of him had a suspicion something was amiss. “Ianite?” Spark questioned again. He appeared in the clearing, lit by the lamps. His face was covered in sweat and he looked intimidating. He loomed over Jordan. He saw the dead body, and he locked eyes with Jordan. He immediately turned to where the axe was sitting to grab it—but it was gone. “Fucking…Are you a jealous son of a bitch, Tom? Jealous that you’re useless—that you’re never going to go anywhere? That mommy and daddy never loved you?” Spark hollered. “That I’ll never make you my boyfriend. Huh? You want to hear that I love you?” Spark glanced down at Jordan and it looked, as if he was considering killing him, but Spark clearly didn’t want to leave himself exposed. He stalked past Jordan and grabbed something from the tent. A gun. Jordan swallowed, grateful he might have a quick death, but Spark didn’t want to waste bullets on him. His eyes were on the woods.

The axe came sailing out from the woods. Thrown. It’s arc was nothing impressive, but it did its job. It struck Spark’s leg and then fell to the ground, weakening him. Spark turned on his good leg and fired blindly into the woods.

Silence.

Jordan could only crane his head and watch. A morbid fascination to know what was happening. Tom exited the woods, holding a long branch. Spark looked to him in bitter amusement. He was clutching his bleeding leg and raised his other hand with the gun. “You’re—”

Spark didn’t finish. Tom lunged forward and swung the branch into his head. Spark was taken by surprise and didn’t fire the gun correctly. The bullet hit the ground and Tom discarded the branch to grab the axe within reach now. He swung it into Spark’s chest—and again. Jordan turned his head as heard Spark choking on his blood, still alive, but too injured to move.

Jordan heard footsteps and wondered if it was his time to die, but Tom bent down next to him. He was covered in blood, his eyes—nearly black in the low lighting—were startingly calm. He pulled out a pocket knife and cut the bindings free. He pulled the bindings away and then pulled the gag out of Jordan’s mouth. Jordan could say nothing or think to move as Tom stood again, axe dangling from his finger tips. He let it fall and then strode to Spark’s body. Spark was still alive, but it didn’t seem like for long.

“He used to talk about drowning you—of holding your head under water,” Tom said. “He said it’s all he ever thought about ever since you were born. He wished he did it when you were a toddler while your mom stepped away and told him to watch you,” Tom continued. He grabbed Spark’s shoulders and began dragging him to the river. It was running fast tonight. The current was rough and scraped against the nearby rocks without mercy. “I was hoping—you’d also want to pay him back in kind.”

Tom took off his blood covered glove, and held his hand palm up. Jordan sat up now, his body felt bruised all over and he was shaking. The hand—a mere three feet from him, wavered in the air. Jordan went to it—it felt like the only certain thing and Tom gently grabbed his hand and pulled him to Spark’s body. He could feel Spark’s eyes—still alert, awake, watching, judging. Tom inclined his head to Spark.

“Grab his other shoulder—we’ll hold his head under the water,” Tom told Jordan.

Jordan did what Tom asked then—he couldn’t imagine doing anything else. He was too shaken. He confessed to all of it, but was acquitted—the PTSD and the unknown—but now very well known, behaviors of Spark were a reason enough for his actions to be survival. No one questioned it. And many were sympathetic that Jordan went along with it for his own survival.

But part of him, as Tom—supporting most of Spark’s weight—pushed his head into the water felt nothing but relief. When Tom gently took the hand holding Spark’s shoulder and guided it to Spark’s neck, the same place Jordan had felt those fingers dig in many times, he locked on tight. And he pushed Spark’s head further under the water. The rocks tore against the wounds already in his chest, the frigid water flowed past Jordan’slegs and Tom’s blood covered garb and they held Spark there until Tom decided it had been enough. He grabbed a towel from the campsite and wrapped it around Jordan. He himself turned to the other body. It was quickly deposited in the river, and Spark’s pushed all the way in—to float somewhere down the stream. A sloppy murder done to free him. To free both of them.

Jordan didn’t move as Tom cleaned up the crime-scene. As Tom burned some things in a small fire that had already been going. Or as he shoveled some of the remains of the fire into a bag that disappeared elsewhere. He could barely think to move as Tom gently helped him stand and guided him into the passenger seat of the feared truck.

“Mot will be around,” Tom said. “He’ll provide an alibi, for you—and for me. Of sorts. You wandered here,” Tom continued, “wounded. We cared for you—Spark clearly did it. You told us as much. I,” Tom said, as they pulled into the parking lot of the sex-shop. “Have never met Spark a day in my life and this truck?” Tom leaned over and opened Jordan’s door. “Was stolen by a drug addict too high on meth to know who it belonged to.” He smiled at Jordan—and Jordan wondered if it was right that it made him feel warm in some way. It was reassuring. He couldn’t step out of the truck. He collapsed. It didn’t surprise him that Mot was almost waiting. That he helped Jordan into the back room—restored flawlessly to its earlier state and set him on the cushions.

“You’re safe,” Mot told him. Mot didn’t look fazed. Instead, he looked remarkably calm. He had the number to CPS on a notepad and was otherwise unaffected by the situation. He gave Jordan food from the gas-station part again and when Tom came back in, the truck was gone—as was all of the plastic.

“Don’t worry, Jordan—you’re safe,” he echoed Mot. He sat down at the table across from Jordan drinking a can of coke. “We’re friends now—you and I. And I’m not going to kill my friends. I have too many other people I need to kill.”

And Jordan could believe it.


End file.
